Chapter Twenty-Four THE BOTTLE OF WINE

Chapter Twenty-Four THE BOTTLE OF WINE

AS regards Theodore Racksole, who was to have caught his man from the outside of the cellar, he made his way as rapidly as possible from the wine-cellars, up to the ground floor, out of the hotel by the quadrangle, through the quadrangle, and out into the top of Salisbury Lane. Now, owing to the vastness of the structure of the Grand Babylon, the mere distance thus to be traversed amounted to a little short of a quarter of a mile, and, as it included a number of stairs, about two dozen turnings, and several passages which at that time of night were in darkness more or less complete, Racksole could not have been expected to accomplish the journey in less than five minutes. As a matter of fact, six minutes had elapsed before he reached the top of Salisbury Lane, because he had been delayed nearly a minute by some questions addressed to him by a muddled and whisky-laden guest who had got lost in the corridors. As everybody knows, there is a sharp short bend in Salisbury Lane near the top. Racksole ran round this at good racing speed, but he was unfortunate enough to run straight up against the very policeman who had not long before so courteously supplied Jules with a match. The policeman seemed to be scarcely in so pliant a mood just then.

‘Hullo!’ he said, his naturally suspicious nature being doubtless aroused by the spectacle of a bareheaded man in evening dress running violently down the lane. ‘What’s this? Where are you for in such a hurry?’ and he forcibly detained Theodore Racksole for a moment and scrutinized his face.

‘Now, officer,’ said Racksole quietly, ‘none of your larks, if you please.

I’ve no time to lose.’

‘Beg your pardon, sir,’ the policeman remarked, though hesitatingly and not quite with good temper, and Racksole was allowed to proceed on his way. The millionaire’s scheme for trapping Jules was to get down into the little sunk yard by means of the ladder, and then to secrete himself behind some convenient abutment of brickwork until Mr Tom Jackson should have got into the cellar. He therefore nimbly surmounted the railings-- the railings of his own hotel--and was gingerly descending the ladder, when lo! a rough hand seized him by the coat-collar and with a ferocious jerk urged him backwards. The fact was, Theodore Racksole had counted without the policeman. That guardian of the peace, mistrusting Racksole’s manner, quietly followed him down the lane. The sight of the millionaire climbing the railings had put him on his mettle, and the result was the ignominious capture of Racksole. In vain Theodore expostulated, explained, anathematized. Only one thing would satisfy the stolid policeman--namely, that Racksole should return with him to the hotel and there establish his identity. If Racksole then proved to be Racksole, owner of the Grand Babylon, well and good--the policeman promised to apologize. So Theodore had no alternative but to accept the suggestion. To prove his identity was, of course, the work of only a few minutes, after which Racksole, annoyed, but cool as ever, returned to his railings, while the policeman went off to another part of his beat, where he would be likely to meet a comrade and have a chat.

In the meantime, our friend Jules, sublimely unconscious of the altercation going on outside, and of the special risk which he ran, was of course actually in the cellar, which he had reached before Racksole got to the railings for the first time. It was, indeed, a happy chance for Jules that his exit from the cellar coincided with the period during which Racksole was absent from the railings. As Racksole came down the lane for the second time, he saw a figure walking about fifty yards in front of him towards the Embankment. Instantly he divined that it was Jules, and that the policeman had thrown him just too late. He ran, and Jules, hearing the noise of pursuit, ran also. The ex-waiter was fleet; he made direct for a certain spot in the Embankment wall, and, to the intense astonishment of Racksole, jumped clean over the wall, as it seemed, into the river. ‘Is he so desperate as to commit suicide?’ Racksole exclaimed as he ran, but a second later the puff and snort of a steam launch told him that Jules was not quite driven to suicide. As the millionaire crossed the Embankment roadway he saw the funnel of the launch move out from under the river-wall. It swerved into midstream and headed towards London Bridge. There was a silent mist over the river. Racksole was helpless....

Although Racksole had now been twice worsted in a contest of wits within the precincts of the Grand Babylon, once by Rocco and once by Jules, he could not fairly blame himself for the present miscarriage of his plans- -a miscarriage due to the meddlesomeness of an extraneous person, combined with pure ill-fortune. He did not, therefore, permit the accident to interfere with his sleep that night.

On the following day he sought out Prince Aribert, between whom and himself there now existed a feeling of unmistakable, frank friendship, and disclosed to him the happenings of the previous night, and particularly the tampering with the bottle of Romanée-Conti.

‘I believe you dined with Prince Eugen last night?’

‘I did. And curiously enough we had a bottle of Romanée-Conti, an admirable wine, of which Eugen is passionately fond.’

‘And you will dine with him to-night?’

‘Most probably. To-day will, I fear, be our last day here. Eugen wishes to return to Posen early to-morrow.’

‘Has it struck you, Prince,’ said Racksole, ‘that if Jules had succeeded in poisoning your nephew, he would probably have succeeded also in poisoning you?’

‘I had not thought of it,’ laughed Aribert, ‘but it would seem so. It appears that so long as he brings down his particular quarry, Jules is careless of anything else that may be accidentally involved in the destruction. However, we need have no fear on that score now. You know the bottle, and you can destroy it at once.’

‘But I do not propose to destroy it,’ said Racksole calmly. ‘If Prince Eugen asks for Romanée-Conti to be served to-night, as he probably will, I propose that that precise bottle shall be served to him--and to you.’

‘Then you would poison us in spite of ourselves?’

‘Scarcely,’ Racksole smiled. ‘My notion is to discover the accomplices within the hotel. I have already inquired as to the wine-clerk, Hubbard. Now does it not occur to you as extraordinary that on this particular day Mr Hubbard should be ill in bed? Hubbard, I am informed, is suffering from an attack of stomach poisoning, which has supervened during the night. He says that he does not know what can have caused it. His place in the wine cellars will be taken to-day by his assistant, a mere youth, but to all appearances a fairly smart youth. I need not say that we shall keep an eye on that youth.’

‘One moment,’ Prince Aribert interrupted. ‘I do not quite understand how you think the poisoning was to have been effected.’

‘The bottle is now under examination by an expert, who has instructions to remove as little as possible of the stuff which Jules put on the rim of the mouth of it. It will be secretly replaced in its bin during the day. My idea is that by the mere action of pouring out the wine takes up some of the poison, which I deem to be very strong, and thus becomes fatal as it enters the glass.’

‘But surely the servant in attendance would wipe the mouth of the bottle?’

‘Very carelessly, perhaps. And moreover he would be extremely unlikely to wipe off all the stuff; some of it has been ingeniously placed just on the inside edge of the rim. Besides, suppose he forgot to wipe the bottle?’

‘Prince Eugen is always served at dinner by Hans. It is an honour which the faithful old fellow reserves for himself.’

‘But suppose Hans--’ Racksole stopped.

‘Hans an accomplice! My dear Racksole, the suggestion is wildly impossible.’

That night Prince Aribert dined with his august nephew in the superb dining-room of the Royal apartments. Hans served, the dishes being brought to the door by other servants. Aribert found his nephew despondent and taciturn. On the previous day, when, after the futile interview with Sampson Levi, Prince Eugen had despairingly threatened to commit suicide, in such a manner as to make it ‘look like an accident’, Aribert had compelled him to give his word of honour not to do so.

‘What wine will your Royal Highness take?’ asked old Hans in his soothing tones, when the soup was served.

‘Sherry,’ was Prince Eugen’s curt order.

‘And Romanée-Conti afterwards?’ said Hans. Aribert looked up quickly.

‘No, not to-night. I’ll try Sillery to-night,’ said Prince Eugen.

‘I think I’ll have Romanée-Conti, Hans, after all,’ he said. ‘It suits me better than champagne.’

The famous and unsurpassable Burgundy was served with the roast. Old Hans brought it tenderly in its wicker cradle, inserted the corkscrew with mathematical precision, and drew the cork, which he offered for his master’s inspection. Eugen nodded, and told him to put it down. Aribert watched with intense interest. He could not for an instant believe that Hans was not the very soul of fidelity, and yet, despite himself, Racksole’s words had caused him a certain uneasiness. At that moment Prince Eugen murmured across the table:

‘Aribert, I withdraw my promise. Observe that, I withdraw it.’ Aribert shook his head emphatically, without removing his gaze from Hans. The white-haired servant perfunctorily dusted his napkin round the neck of the bottle of Romanée-Conti, and poured out a glass. Aribert trembled from head to foot.

Eugen took up the glass and held it to the light.

‘Don’t drink it,’ said Aribert very quietly. ‘It is poisoned.’

‘Poisoned!’ exclaimed Prince Eugen.

‘Poisoned, sire!’ exclaimed old Hans, with an air of profound amazement and concern, and he seized the glass. ‘Impossible, sire. I myself opened the bottle. No one else has touched it, and the cork was perfect.’

‘I tell you it is poisoned,’ Aribert repeated.

‘Your Highness will pardon an old man,’ said Hans, ‘but to say that this wine is poison is to say that I am a murderer. I will prove to you that it is not poisoned. I will drink it.’ And he raised the glass to his trembling lips. In that moment Aribert saw that old Hans, at any rate, was not an accomplice of Jules. Springing up from his seat, he knocked the glass from the aged servitor’s hands, and the fragments of it fell with a light tinkling crash partly on the table and partly on the floor. The Prince and the servant gazed at one another in a distressing and terrible silence.

There was a slight noise, and Aribert looked aside. He saw that Eugen’s body had slipped forward limply over the left arm of his chair; the Prince’s arms hung straight and lifeless; his eyes were closed; he was unconscious.

‘Hans!’ murmured Aribert. ‘Hans! What is this?’